Tag Archives: Full House

When I got a dog, I vowed never to leave him home alone for more than a half a day, tops. “It’s not fair to him,” I said. “I’ll be his whole world, the side pony to his elastic hair band, the ‘stache to his wet nose, the Kelly Kapowski to his Zack Morris.”

And for the past six and a half years, I’ve been pretty successful.

This week, I took my dog with me on a trip to Maine, and for the most part, the scene out and about has looked like this:

RANDOM PASSERBY 1: Is that a Labradoodle?

ME: Yup.

RANDOM PASSERBY 1: What’s her name?

ME: His name is Uncle Jesse.

RANDOM PASSERBY 1 (smiling): Dukes of Hazard?

ME: Full House.

RANDOM PASSERBY 2: Adorable!

ME: Thank you!

RANDOM PASSERBY 2: Is she a puppy?

ME: Nope, he’s six.

RANDOM PASSERBY 2: Wow, she looks like a puppy.

RANDOM PASSERBY 3: Oh my god. She’s so cute.

(Repeat above to infinity.)

And then we dine al fresco.

On Wednesday, I took Uncle Jesse to Jordon Pond in Acadia National Park, and just as we set foot on the trail, a shout stopped us.

“Hey! Hey! Can I see your dog?”

A thin, middle-aged man took his foot out of a red kayak and jogged over.

No! Shut your eyes and turn around, madman! I thought.

Uncle Jesse squatted and pooped.

“Goldendoodle?” the man asked.

“No, Labradoodle.”

“I have a Goldendoodle. I couldn’t bring her today because I’m going kayaking.”

“Yeah… well… that makes sense,” I offered.

“Here, let me show you a picture.”

Kayak Man pulled out his phone and took three minutes to bring up a blurry photo of a giant Goldendoodle in front of a tent.

A park ranger who’d been within earshot approached. He stared at Uncle Jesse.

What…what are you waiting for? Go set your DVR! (I say “set your DVR” because I assume that, like me, you a) go to bed at 8:30pm, and b) with great pain, deleted a high-def version of Sharknad0, and now have room on your DVR.)

You’re welcome.

What TV characters from your youth would you poop a brick to see brought back to life on a late night talk show?

Grab your boxing gloves, Chipmunks, because Don, of don of all trades, and I are going head-to-head over:

Dogs vs. Babies

We each get up to ten points to make our case. Don may be a father, lawyer and cop, but totally lets me boss him around little does this man-of-allegedly-every-occupation know, I have experience in blog debates. Many moons ago, Third Husband proposed we discuss the merits (or lack thereof) of Glee, and I think we can all agree that after taking a slushie to the face, I emerged the clear victor.

Sweet, sweet, cherry-flavored victory.

I’m a little scared to read Don’s opposing argument, though. Not because I’m worried about valid points, god no, but because he’s a shamelessly verbose, terrible person with zero filter; there’s no telling where he’ll take this. He’s already cursed and posted fake sonogram pictures on my Facebook wall, sending both my mother and mother-in-law into a frenzy:

Don’s caption? “Awesome…SOOOOOO excited for you guys!!”

So, Don. As much as I like to play dirty, get your mind out of the gutter and grab the leash (that one’s just killing you, isn’t it?). By the time you’re through reading this, you’ll be ready to trade your ten thousand sticky offspring for a downy-soft ‘doodle.

Why Dogs Doodles Are Better Than Babies

1. They sleep a lot.

Like, a lot a lot. Soooo much.

2. They’re not smart enough for college (can you spell S-A-V-I-N-G-S?).

I’m not sure you’ll recognize that today is special, when we shower you with gourmet, organic treats, long walks and hour-long massages. Or when we coo over and over again, ‘He’s a good man. That’s a good man. Who’s the best man?’

Oh. Is this not an appropriate excuse to drink champagne?

But it’s true!

Today’s your 3rd birthday!

Birthday surprises from your BFF, Shunderson!

Already you’ve been with us for 2 years, 9 months and 28 days. Now’s not the time to talk of my guilt over your silver-spooned upbringing, but rather to praise your genetic superiority and extremely reputable entry into this world thanks to your mother’s tireless research and your father’s stubborn allergies.

We named you after John Stamos’ character on Full House because we knew you were destined to be the cool one. And have great hair.

Have mercy.

Here are just a few of the things we love about you, Uncle Jesse:

You fetch your Hot Pocket toy when we sing the jingle (“Ho-ot Pocket!”).

You dry your tongue on our pants after you take a drink.

You have access to your kibble all day, every day, and only eat it when we sit down to dinner; then you nosh lying down.

You help Dad tune the guitar when he gets to the 4th string, every time.

You learned how to do Full House-themed tricks at 9 1/2 weeks old.

(If people don’t believe the last two, they should play thE video!)

Please stop touching me.

If you disapprove of someone’s petting methods, you lick them aggressively to correct the faux paw pas. They mistake this for affection. I’m sorry we blew up your spot, but you do it to us, too, you ungrateful bastard well-bred specimen.

Hello, Ceiling Fan.

Your legs are super long and your paws are incredibly fancy, especially when you tuck them under, or cross them just so.

You’re convinced the bedroom ceiling fan is possessed and/or omnipotent. If it’s been too quiet for too long, or something is otherwise amiss, we catch you staring at it dubiously.

I hope you enjoy this birthday tribute video I made especially for you:

Love,

Your doting and equally adorable mother

~*~*~*~*~*~

So what do you get for the Australian Labradoodle who has everything? Well, you can make like a Shel Silverstein tree, and give. Please join me in helping friend and fellow blogger, Valerie from Nikitaland:

Note: The ad below the Pledge for Pets button is not part of this post.

Since then, I’ve come up with all kinds of ways to amuse myself at his expense. Mostly in the form of nicknames, which change on at least a biweekly basis*. (Current nickname: Schnoodle. Because he looks like a noodle, it rhymes with poodle, and he’s just so darn…schnoodly. Don’t you think?)

We also call him a ‘man’ instead of a ‘boy’. He’s a good man. A smart man. “Come here,

A Schnoodly man

man.” Along with his name, it tends to confuse people, so we keep doing it.

I also like replacing dog-related phrases and commands with things that are ticklier to my fancy. “Fetch,” for example, has become an appreciative, “Thank you.” As in, “Thank you in advance for bringing me that toy. It was so very kind of you.” Works like a charm.

Let’s see. We’ve already covered the fact that I was an extra on “Dawson’s Creek,” am obsessed with Glee, Harry Potter and little miss pageants, and that I named my dog after a “Full House” character. You might be thinking this well’s about to dry up.

Nay, friends, I’ve only just begun. (It certainly helps that blogging about guilty pleasures is, in and of itself, a guilty pleasure. That shouldn’t be allowed. It’s like trying to stare at the sun.)

Here are a mere few of the things I plan to bring to your [rapt] attention over the coming weeks. (Please feel free to express your gratitude by subscribing. Or by sending pictures of animals dressed as other animals.)

1. What to expect if you see Daniel Radcliffe naked, live, as I have.

2. What NOT to say if someone asks if you want to attend a week-long Project Management Boot Camp in Blue Bell, Pennsylvania.

3. 9021-Oh My God.

4. Robert Pattinson SINGS! (Holy sh*t, how have I not gotten to this yet!?)